Pressed a hand to his mouth.
And wondered—quietly, wildly—if a man like him was allowed to keep something like this.
Not power. Not peace.
But joy, fragile and undeserved.
??????
The suite was quiet.
Not the kind of silence that meant calm—but the kind that made Seungho pause at the door, briefcase still in hand, wondering if the building had been evacuated without telling him.
Then—
A thump.
A crash.
And a sound like a drawer being yanked out of its rails, followed by an offended squawk.
Seungho stepped inside.
What he found was not a room.
It was a riot.
Haneul stood half-naked in the middle of the suite, wet braid dripping down his spine, one sock on, one leg tangled in a pair of trousers that could only be described as a crime against color theory. His shirt was nowhere to be seen, though a pink scarf fluttered from the ceiling fan like a war flag. A trail of shirts, towels, bracelets, and one bottle of cologne led from the bathroom to the desk. The entire bed was buried under an avalanche of clothing.
And in the eye of the storm: Haneul, glorious and deranged, bent at the waist and rummaging through a suitcase with all the tenderness of a raccoon in a dumpster.
Seungho blinked.
“Oh!” Haneul popped up, triumphant and sweaty, holding what appeared to be one sock with little embroidered ducks. “Thank the gods! I knew you had good timing. I was just about to invoke the lost spirits of the laundry dimension.”
A beat.
Haneul froze. Caught Seungho’s stare.
Then grinned wide. “Oh, stop looking at me like a drunk daddy at pride night. I know I’m hot.”
“You’re—” Seungho tried, then gave up and set his briefcase down. “What exactly are you doing?”
“Getting dressed for our dinner date, obviously.” Haneul beamed, pulling the duck sock over his foot. “I told you I’d let you take me anywhere you wanted… if you helped me find these.”
“You could’ve just asked.”
“I did!” Haneul huffed. “Telepathically. Through the bond.”
Seungho didn’t even blink. “You left the bond on Do Not Disturb.”
Haneul gasped. “I would never!”
“You did it last night after the fourth round.”
“Lies and slander! I was unconscious from blissful trauma!”
He straightened up, grabbing a sheer navy shirt and shimmying into it backwards before yanking it around with a flourish. His bare skin flashed through the fabric, collarbone glinting, hipbones sharp. “Well, anyway—shoes. Where are the shiny black ones with the slight heel that make me feel like a cursed fairy prince?”
